The hotel room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of your phone. You were lying curled against Ilia Malinin, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across him. His breathing was slow, steady, eyes half-closed, hair a little messy from practice. The warmth of him pressed against you, calming some of the tension that had built over the last few days—the online comments, the pressure of the Olympics, the worry about tomorrow.
You scrolled anyway, even though you knew you shouldn’t. The words burned in your chest:
“She’s a distraction.” “Ever since she showed up, he’s off his game.” “This is why athletes shouldn’t have girlfriends during the Olympics.”
You pressed closer to him, letting the rise and fall of his chest remind you that none of that mattered—not really.
“Still reading that?” His voice was low, sleepy, half-lidded, but calm.
You put the phone down. “I… can’t stop thinking about it.”
He nudged you gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “None of that matters. They don’t know you. They don’t decide anything. And they certainly don’t decide us.”
You rested your head against him. “But what if something goes wrong tomorrow?”
He smiled softly, leaning down to press a gentle, reassuring kiss to your lips. “Then we face it together. That’s all that matters.”
The next day, sitting in the kiss and cry beside his coach, the arena was brighter than usual—lights glaring, cameras flashing, the crowd buzzing. You held your hands tightly, heart racing, trying to calm your nerves as you watched him step onto the ice. The memory of last night’s quiet, the warmth of him beside you, and that soft kiss gave you courage.
“Next to skate… Ilia Malinin!”
The music began.
First jump—clean. Second jump—strong.
Then came the triple flip. His landing wobbled—a small step, almost imperceptible—but enough to make your stomach twist.
He paused for the briefest moment, eyes sharp, chest steadying. Then he pushed into the next sequence with renewed focus, gliding through spins and jumps with power and control. Every movement was precise, every landing firm. The audience leaned forward, captivated not by perfection, but by the resilience and determination radiating from him.
When he finally finished, chest heaving, sweat on his forehead, he skated to the side and instinctively embraced his coach—his dad—tight and long. You could see the pride in his dad’s eyes, the quiet relief, the shared understanding of years of hard work and sacrifice.
Then he turned to you, pulling you close in a hug, resting his forehead against yours, letting out the tension that had built up for months. Your arms wrapped around him, holding him as tightly as he held you. Then he sat down next to you watching the others routines.